


Saccharum Pater

by PNGuin



Series: Dux Bellorum One-Shots [11]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Alec Lightwood Loves Magnus Bane, Alec is an idiot but we all love him anyway, Angst with a Happy Ending, Insecure Alec Lightwood, Insecure Magnus Bane, M/M, Magnus Bane Loves Alec Lightwood, Magnus gives him nice things, Miscommunication, Sugar Daddy, this was supposed to be funny but author failed horribly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 01:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PNGuin/pseuds/PNGuin
Summary: Some expectedly crass throwaway comment from Jace has Alec rethinking his entire relationship with Magnus.Does it count as a sugar daddy if you’re in a committed relationship?





	Saccharum Pater

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not dead and I'm sorry for the extended silence!
> 
> This was just supposed to be something light and fun, but of course someone (*cough* Alec *cough*) couldn't keep his insecurities out of my story. That being said, this is still just a fun little plot that does not at all accurately portray the Sugar life, so take that with a grain of salt (grain of sugar?)
> 
> Title is, of course, Latin for "sugar daddy."

To be completely honest, Alec feels utterly foolish.

He’s practically hunched behind his desk and he doesn’t need a mirror to know that he most likely looks _exactly_ like the ‘brooding, surly boss man’ that his siblings always love to tease him for. The door to his office is closed and locked – both with the mundane lock and a couple of runes – but he still finds himself glancing over at it every few seconds, terrified that someone will burst in and disrupt him. Or maybe they’ll notice that his door, so often ajar due to his adherence to an open-door policy, is suspiciously closed and they’ll _assume things_. Or maybe Jace will get curious and find a way to climb up to the balcony just outside the office, or down the chimney, or-

Alec is being paranoid. Alec _knows_ that he’s being paranoid. But knowing it and admitting it doesn’t stop it from happening.

His hands are shaking where they rest on the keyboard of his laptop and he feels like an _idiot_. But he’s curious. Morbidly so. Horrifically so. Aggravatingly so. Alec wants to _know_ , but every time he attempts to type in his query, all he can think about is that old maxim of _‘curiosity killed the cat.’_ He imagines himself giving in to his curiosity and then his siblings finding his body on the floor of his office, dead from a sudden heart-attack, or maybe from being smote down by the angels themselves. Of course, then his mind conjures up the phantom of Magnus’ teasing tone, of his boyfriend playfully reminding him that for all that curiosity killed the cat _‘satisfaction brought it back.’_

He types out the question and hits enter before he can second guess himself. Before the results even pop up, he’s burying his face in his hands and just barely resisting the urge to slam his computer closed. There’s an ungodly amount of sweat on his hands and his heart is stumbling in his chest and he has to resort to using the breathing techniques that he typically reserves for avoiding absolute _panic_ and he can’t believe he’s being such a _baby_ about the whole ordeal.

It’s almost as if he can feel Jace and Izzy leaning over his shoulders, wide-eyed and laughing as they read what he’s typed out. And, really, it’s all entirely their faults anyway, and Alec is very seriously debating establishing a mandatory and horribly grueling physical check just to see the two of them struggle. (The part of his brain that is still holding on to a semblance of logic and has managed to avoid his ridiculous behavior reminds him that such an action would be an abuse of power; he’ll just have to settle for beating both of them up in some training session like any good older brother.)

With a bravery that feels near impossible to assemble, Alec peeks out past the cage of his fingers. And there, right on his laptop screen in simple and painfully blunt letters, is the single question that has been haunting him for the past two weeks. Just seeing the words seems to actualize his worry and fear, and it all spikes back up to a profoundly absurd amount. He’s been fighting demons since he was twelve and he’s literally faced down a countless number of rogue vampires and rabid werewolves and homicidal terrorists, but have him try to survive a single Google search and suddenly he’s an absolute mess.

_‘Does it count as a sugar daddy if you’re in a committed relationship?’_ is what the search engine reads and Alec thinks it’s quite possible that he could _die_ from the embarrassment of it all.

It’s entirely Jace’s fault. Absolutely one hundred percent Jace’s fault. Well, completely Jace and _Izzy’s_ faults. Both of them are little shits. He can almost hear his younger siblings’ teasing laughter, light and mocking in a good-natured manner that would still rub Alec the wrong way. Alec’s cheeks heat up, a blush that burns all the way down to his chest, and he has to turn away from his laptop and bury his face back in his hands just to stave off the shameful nausea that roils in his stomach.

All of this because his obnoxious _parabatai_ made some stupid throwaway comment. The three of them – Jace, Izzy, and himself – had gone out to eat at some Italian restaurant in downtown Manhattan. Not exactly a place that Alec would have called upscale, certainly not compared to some of the restaurants Magnus has taken him to, but still a rare treat for them that was leagues above eating cheap greasy diner food at two in the morning. When Alec had tried to pay for their meal – because his siblings were both absolute free-loaders who spent all of their own money on clothes and beauty products instead of _actually responsible_ things – the waitress had recognized him and had mentioned that _‘Mr. Bane insisted that all your meals be placed on his tab.’_

Having Alec’s boyfriend inadvertently pay for their meal had, _of course_ , led to Jace sniggering like some immature twelve-year-old and leaning closer to their equally immature sister. _“Look at that, Iz,”_ the idiotic blond had choked out amidst laughter, _“our surly big brother has found himself a sugar daddy!”_ And, like the two jerks that his siblings are, they had promptly dissolved into snorting chuckles while Alec had futilely attempted to hide his mortification

Which is how, two weeks after the incident, Alec finds himself miserably cooped up in his office and studiously trying to ignore the furious blush he can feel burning on his cheeks. For two weeks, Alec has done nothing but make an absolute idiot of himself; every second he’s spent in Magnus’ company has been tainted by his own perpetual tendency to _overthink_. And it just so happens that his current target for overthinking is the concept of his boyfriend _being a sugar daddy_.

He thinks – he hopes? – that it’s a ludicrous idea. But he, admittedly, is not exactly the most well-versed in modern culture and he doesn’t really know what it all _means_. Alec has the vaguest inclination of what a _sugar daddy_ is, mostly due to the half-joking conversations that he’s unwillingly been involved in with Izzy and Jace. Aside from the most basic of comprehension, Alec is all but clueless. He’s spent the last two weeks in a state of fearful ignorance, morbidly curious to learn more. It’s a state of foolish _innocence_ that Alec long ago promised himself he would never suffer through again.

So, here he is. Compiling extremely dubious information from such _reputable_ websites as _Urban Dictionary_ and _sugardaddydatingclub.com_. He may or may not already have a few hastily scribbled out bullet points in one of his spare notepads, an odd and nonsensical collection of acronyms and sugar-based puns. The more he glares at the computer screen with a half-terrified, half-intrigued scowl, the deeper he delves into a culture he never, _ever_ expressed an interest in. He squirms in his seat, equal parts anxious and nauseous, and he wants nothing more than to slam his laptop closed and _flee_. But. There’s that morbidly curious part of himself that insists he follows through on his inquiries, that he comes to some sort of conclusion, that he answers the question that has been rattling around at the forefront of his mind for the better part of two weeks.

Is Magnus a sugar daddy? Is Magnus _his_ sugar daddy? And does that make _Alec_ a sugar _baby_?

He wants to say a very definitive and certain _no, of course not_. They’re in a committed relationship that is based upon their mutual interest, care, and loyalty for each other. It’s not some sort of _exchange;_ no proffered money for services rendered. Magnus doesn’t need to pay Alec just to receive his attention or his regard or his affection. Everything between them is freely given without any expectation for _compensation_. And, as far as Alec understands, that is vastly different from the arrangement made between a sugar daddy and their sugar baby.

But.

Alec thinks of the leather jacket that Magnus had given him when his old one had been torn to shreds on a patrol, far richer and more supple than any sort of jacket Alec had ever purchased with his own money. And he thinks of the fancy watch that Magnus had eagerly gifted to him, sleek metal and warm leather and no doubt ridiculously overpriced. And he thinks of the handful of suits, perfectly tailored to him in carefully selected fabrics that don’t make him _itch_ all over and that cost more than his entire wardrobe combined. And then there’s the weighted blanket that Magnus had insisted Alec indulge in whenever the shadowhunter spends the night, and the plethora of upscale restaurants and expensive wines and lavish meals, and the luxury vacations whenever Magnus manages to drag him out of the office long enough to have them.

And Alec thinks of that precious – borderline _timid_ – smile that Magnus will wear whenever he offers such extravagant gifts to Alec. Almost as if he’s worried or anxious about the gift or about how Alec will react to it. Almost as if he’s always asking _‘is this okay? is this enough? do you like it? did I do well for you, Alexander?’_ and Alec is always impossibly hopeless to resist soothing such an expression. It’s a thinly veiled terror that inspires Magnus, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Alec to stop wanting to be near him. He hides it well, trapped beneath a mask of flippancy, of wealth, of ridiculous flaunting and peacocking of his own financial fortune.

As if he must _buy_ his way into Alec’s consideration, as if without his wealth he is nothing, as if he fears losing Alec by not constantly inundating him with gifts.

He suddenly slams his laptop closed, leaning over his desk so that he can curl further in on himself and rest his forehead on the cool wooden surface. A ball of lead, heavy and cold and unpalatable, is resting at the bottom of his stomach, weighing him down and drowning him until he gasps out his last breath. He can’t breathe anymore; he can hardly even think straight. Thoughts – cluttered and chaotic – rattle around in his head, an obscure version of alphabet soup that contains such mortifying terms as _‘sugar daddy’_ and _‘sugar baby’._

They’re supposed to spend the weekend together, with Magnus planning on whisking Alec away to some mystery country for the next two days. It isn’t that Alec doesn’t enjoy traveling – in fact, ever since Magnus had first taken him to Tokyo, Alec has discovered a sudden and intense desire to see the world – but then how is Alec supposed to reciprocate? _He_ can’t take Magnus to amazing cities halfway around the world; he can’t afford prestigious resorts or Michelin star restaurants or overpriced tickets to the opera.

What does Alec have to offer, then? Dinner at some rundown burger joint in the East Village? Cheap little tchotchkes that Magnus could just buy for himself if he really wanted them? There’s nothing Alec can give Magnus that Magnus couldn’t already give himself; it unsettles something deep within him that Alec is _not enough_ and that Magnus feels the need to compensate for that by being _too much_.

A morbid, horrific, insidious thought crosses his mind, dripping over his awareness like the viscous slime of a swamp. A relationship built on such an imbalance is not one that is made to last. One day, whether it is tomorrow or in thirty years, Alec will take too much, Magnus will offer too much, something between them will bend until it breaks.

With all the weight of a man dragging himself to his own executioner’s block, Alec stands from his desk and gathers up his personal items. He has a whole weekend with Magnus planned, and for the first time since their initial date at the Hunter’s Moon, Alec finds himself dreading the very notion of it.

But, he had promised Magnus that he would clear his schedule for the weekend, that he would delegate any of his remaining responsibilities to other shadowhunters, that he would try to actually relax and enjoy their brief respite together. So he stands from his desk and carefully files all of his remaining work into their proper drawers, and then he’s locking up his office and striding out of the Institute with much more confidence than he feels.

He could simply text or call Magnus and there would be a portal to the loft within a minute; there’s no need for Alec to waste nearly a full hour walking to Brooklyn Heights. Something cold spreads in his chest, blending with the icy February weather. Alec wonders how much energy and magic it truly takes for a warlock to summon a portal. He understands that Magnus is powerful – perhaps more so than Alec could ever really fathom – but surely after a full day of demanding clients and pernicious deals, even the High Warlock of Brooklyn would grow tired. Magnus would offer Alec a thousand portals if only Alec asked, but he can’t justify taking advantage of his boyfriend’s generosity.

Besides, he needs the chill of the air biting at his ears to clear his own head. He hates the cold, hates how it seeps into his bones and clings to him; it’s suffocating and cloying, but the sharp stinging of the ice in his lungs helps finally calm his rabbiting heart. The skyscrapers tower over him, bland gray shadows that loom over him like stalwart behemoths. Perhaps their presence hanging over him should feel oppressive, and yet all he senses is their familiar protection. He’s run through the streets of New York – hunting demons, dutifully following behind his reckless siblings, or simply looking to get lost for a few hours – ever since he was a boy, and the expansive embrace of the city reminds him of his place in the world.

But the journey from Manhattan to Brooklyn is over before Alec can even begin sorting all of his scattered and disorganized thoughts. His head is spinning with half-formed fears and ideas; he can feel his body quivering from the effort to keep everything in. It wants to rip out of him in messy, incomprehensible torrents. Alec doesn’t even know where most of the dread and the anxiety stems from; it certainly hasn’t made its presence known in the first few months of their relationship. Or perhaps it has slowly been creeping in, vines of discontent and frustration, steadily wrapping around his throat with the intent to choke out all the life and the light of his opportunity with Magnus.

Alec doesn’t know how to voice the concerns that grow deep in his heart, has never been taught nor expected to articulate such tumultuous and abstract feelings. He can’t think of a single way to express everything to Magnus that doesn’t threaten to hurt the warlock’s feelings, or overstep some unspoken boundary, or weaken the still tremulous bond that grows between them.

It’s only been a fleeting few months since their first date, since they both agreed to put forth the effort necessary for their relationship, but already Alec thinks losing Magnus would _break_ him. A childish fear, just as his maelstrom of conflicted feelings make him feel immature. How foolish it must be for Alec to complain about how much Magnus _spoils_ him; as far as relationships go, there could be infinitely worse situations driving a wedge between them. Being so deeply unsettled by getting expensive gifts and too much attention seems like a glaring neon arrow that points right at all of Alec’s own inexperience.

He doesn’t want to be the one that uproots their relationship, doesn’t want to be the one to complain or bitch or grump about some harmless thing Magnus is doing, doesn’t want to be the one that disrupts the achingly sweet peace that settles between them. So Alec swallows down the ridiculous fear and concern and uneasiness and he resolves to just get over whatever this odd freak-out has been. He’ll go and enjoy the weekend where he gets to have Magnus all to himself, and he’ll graciously accept any overpriced gift his boyfriend deems necessary to offer him, and he’ll dutifully forget all about the crawling feeling under his skin whenever he thinks of the words _‘sugar daddy.’_

It doesn’t matter. Not really. And Alec knows he can convince himself of that if he just puts his mind to it.

* * *

Forgetting about the whole _‘sugar daddy’_ thing starts off easy enough. Alec finally reaches the loft, where he quietly lets himself in only to be suddenly bombarded by a chastising Magnus. It’s only once the warlock has succinctly magicked his jacket away and replaced it with a fluffy blanket, summoned two mugs of steaming hot chocolate, and then led them to curl up together on the couch that Alec finally recognizes the bone-deep shivering and the eerie chatter of his own teeth. Magnus tuts with an exasperated and thinly-veiled concern, but tenderly pulls the blanket tighter around them until they’re in a cocoon of blissful warmth.

All of Magnus’ tenderness, however, does nothing to stop him from admonishing Alec for not calling him and requesting a portal. Alec’s mind immediately conjures up all of the swirling emotions from earlier, the fears that Alec is not adequate enough, that Magnus is _too_ generous, that he feels uncomfortable with how often Magnus offers him magic – or _anything_ , really – without expecting something in return. But it’s a familiar conversation, one that they’ve had enough times that Alec already knows how Magnus will respond. He knows the frustrated and exasperated little sigh that Magnus will huff out, the insisting tone of his voice as he’ll try and wheedle through Alec’s stubbornness, the ensuing borderline annoyance when Alec won’t give in as Magnus so desperately wants.

This weekend is supposed to be about _them_ , supposed to be one of the rare moments where they can just spend time together and ignore the pressures of the Shadow World. Between the looming threat of Valentine, the continued frustrations caused by the Clave, and increasing tensions among the warlocks, Magnus has been becoming more and more stressed. Alec has noticed it in the tight grip the older man keeps on his glasses of scotch, in the valiantly hidden but still present clench of his jaw, in the bags under his eyes that he so often covers with makeup and glamors.

Alec has tried everything he could think of to help Magnus relax, but his efforts have been largely fruitless. And now he’s overthinking their relationship and probably doing nothing but worsening the stress that Magnus is battling with. Alec doesn’t want Magnus to suffer just because he can’t seem to keep his own head on straight, so he swallows back all of the swirling thoughts and ducks his head with a quiet apology. He doesn’t resist the warlock’s fretting, even when the familiar tingle of magic dances over his limbs, inspiring both warmth and guilt.

If Magnus notices anything peculiar about Alec’s acquiescence, he doesn’t say anything about it. Neither does Alec.

And it’s _fine_. Alec knows what his priorities are, he knows what things matter most to him and what things can be cast to the side. If it’s Alec’s own ridiculous emotions threatening to get in-between him and Magnus, then Alec knows what his decision is. He has years of experience in pushing everything down, knows how to compartmentalize like an absolute pro. It isn’t difficult at all for him to ignore the niggling feelings of inadequacy that haunt him; he’s felt like that all of his life. At this point, it’s practically negligible.

He grins at Magnus’ jokes and lets the warlock snap his fingers to summon their already packed bags – even if a sharp voice deep in Alec’s chest insists that _he could have packed by himself_. When he takes Magnus’ hand and steps through a conjured portal, it’s with a blind trust that Alec reserves only for _Magnus_. The shadowhunter doesn’t have the faintest clue where the portal will end up, relying only on Magnus’ guiding hand to take them there. Magnus always likes to try and surprise Alec with these weekend trips; it could be somewhere in Europe or Africa, in the mountains or along the beach, surrounded by the city or secluded in the countryside. With anyone else, the lack of control would drive Alec insane. With Magnus, it’s a lot simpler, regardless of any uneasiness Alec might feel occasionally.

When they step out of the portal into some country that is no doubt half-way around the world, Alec’s breath is knocked out of him. The warmth is the first thing he notices, a blessed relief from the frigid New York winter they had left behind. The bright sunshine sinks into his skin and Alec lets some of the pent up tension bleed out of his muscles for once. Nearby, he can hear the crashing of waves against the shore and there’s the distinct tang of salt in the air that Alec recognizes as the smell of the ocean.

But he doesn’t have any time to focus on the scenery, because in the very next second he’s meeting Magnus’ eyes. There’s that eager and hopeful glimmer in his dark gaze, a look that he knows Magnus always tries his very hardest to hide. But it’s obvious to Alec; he’s seen it every single time the warlock tries to impress him and is desperately awaiting a suitably awed response.

Alec is pretty certain that the butterflies in his stomach are more from anxiety than awe. He doesn’t think he can force himself to turn around to whatever surprise Magnus has brought him to, doesn’t think he can keep holding back the nerves and nausea and dread for much longer. Maybe not even for Magnus’ sake.

He tries anyway, turning around with what he desperately hopes is some semblance of a content expression. His carefully crafted mask slips immediately, however, when his brain belatedly realizes what he’s looking at. Towering stone walls and artfully crafted turrets and deceptively delicate looking spires.

Inanely, and no doubt sounding like a damn fool, Alec points up at the building. “Castle,” is the single word that manages to crawl out of his throat and die a pathetic death at his own feet.

If nothing else, the word at least spurs Magnus into action. The warlock tugs where their hands are still linked and leans his full body against Alec’s side, resting his head against the shadowhunter’s shoulder before launching into some ramble.

“I know it isn’t the largest or grandest castle around, but I remember how much you enjoyed that weekend we spent touring castles in Scotland and I figured you might enjoy this place,” Magnus starts, rapid-fire and overzealous in that way he gets when he’s particularly excited or anxious about something. Alec doesn’t even have to look over at the warlock to know how he’ll be fiddling with one of his ear cuffs. He wants to reach out and grab Magnus’ hand, wants to calm that thinly veiled worry, but he can hardly even breathe.

“It’s certainly warmer here than in Scotland, of course,” Magnus continues, seemingly oblivious to the crisis that Alec is spiraling into. “Warm regions are far preferable when it comes to castles; the stone can keep the inside cool, but they’re positively frigid in the northern countries. Rest assured, Alexander, I know better than to drag you to some unbearably cold castle in the middle of the winter.

“You always seem to have a preference for Spain whenever we travel, so here we are. Torremolinos! Just a five minute walk down to the Mediterranean Sea, boasting a wonderful selection of fresh seafood, the botanical gardens, and even a crocodile park. They’re working on establishing their own Pride parade – the city, not the crocodiles. We’ll have to come back once they do, of course.

“How about a grand tour?” the older man asks, spinning on his heel and all but dragging Alec closer to the castle before he can even think about responding.

Alec stumbles along after Magnus, tripping over his own feet and feeling incredibly misplaced. A blotch of dark leather and jeans that seems to stain against the vibrant colors of the beautifully restored castle and the energy that radiates from Magnus like the sun. He helplessly clings to Magnus’ hand and valiantly tries to follow along with whatever the warlock is talking about. Typically, Alec could hang on to Magnus’ words with a dedicated fervor that was borderline terrifying; now, the words bounce around in his head with a hollow ringing that is foreboding and dreadful.

Every single facet of the _castle_ just seems to make the lead in Alec’s stomach sink further. It’s one thing, Alec thinks, to tour some historically significant castles in Scotland. It’s an entirely different thing when your boyfriend decides to whisk you away to spend the weekend in a luxurious castle complete with a fully stocked bar and wine cellar, a pool, tennis courts, and _several_ professionally groomed gardens. Each room – generously outfitted in austere yet understated décor – only serves to increase the nausea roiling through Alec’s entire body.

Somehow, miraculously, Alec makes it all the way to the master suite without devolving into panic. The room is unnecessarily large, sporting a decadent four poster bed that promises to be just as heavenly as Magnus’ bed back at the loft and a wonderfully spacious balcony that overlooks the Mediterranean Sea. Magnus flicks a hand and the French doors ease open, letting in a glorious breeze that helps to wick away the sweat gathering at Alec’s neck. He’s not sure if it’s from the heat or from the anxiety curling in his chest.

Before Alec’s scattered focus can reassemble into some functioning order, Magnus has already concocted some electric blue drink and is holding it out in Alec’s direction. The shadowhunter accepts it mindlessly, a trained habit that not even his internal disorganization can hinder, and takes a delicate sip of it. It doesn’t taste like anything; or perhaps that’s just Alec’s own body revolting against him.

“There’s quite a lot to do around here,” Magnus remarks, swirling the toothpick in his drink with a deceptively aloof air about him. Alec abruptly recognizes the undertone of Magnus’ voice – breathy and higher pitched, _worried_ or _anxious_ – and the barely noticeable tremor that travels up his body – tapping foot, twitching fingers, _nervousness_. “We won’t be able to do everything just this weekend, of course. We’ll have to return at a later date. Perhaps even make it a semi-regular trip?” he suggests with a faux nonchalance. Alec can see right through it, even if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “It’ll help that I officially own the property. Trying to book hotels is such an exhausting process; it’s far easier to simply buy a vacation home outright.”

Alec is lucky he hadn’t been trying to take a drink right at that moment; he would have surely spat it out or choked on it. As it stands, the ground beneath his feet shifts until Alec can feel his knees quivering from the sudden unsteadiness plaguing him. The world drops out from underneath him and he’s _falling_. Because…because…

Magnus bought a castle. Magnus remembered how Alec had gushed over exploring castles in Scotland, Magnus worried that they weren’t spending enough time alone together, Magnus recognized Alec’s deep-seated love for Spain. And he _bought them a whole fucking castle._ Just like that. As if it’s a completely normal thing to do.

He thinks of the commendable but relatively meager amount of money in his own bank account, he thinks of how he had planned on taking Magnus to ice skate when it was next his turn to choose their date, he thinks of that stupid little charm from Tokyo that he had spent a negligible few dollars on, he thinks of his siblings’ teasing laughter and that mortifying internet search and that curdling sensation of _inadequacy_ that settles heavy and viscous in his stomach.

_Alec_ can’t buy a castle for Magnus. Sometimes he can’t hold his boyfriend’s hand in public or kiss his cheek at the Institute. Sometimes he can’t even cuddle in the privacy of Magnus’ own loft, sometimes can’t even ignore the crawling feeling of his skin and the distinct awareness that one touch could have him imploding. Magnus can – and _does_ – do all of those things, and _more_ , for Alec. But Alec can never seem to return that favor. He remembers looking up _sugar babies_ on the internet; some of them ‘repay’ their sugar daddies with sexual favors. Alec doesn’t even think he could stomach the thought most days.

His vision blurs and it takes a belated few seconds to identify the prickling of his eyes as horrible, infuriating, utterly awful _tears_. Between one shuddering breath and the next, Alec’s watery gaze is settling on Magnus’ face. He can pinpoint the exact moment that the warlock _notices_ , can watch almost in slow motion as the older man’s expression drops into a gut-wrenching combination of _surpriseworrydisappointment_ that has Alec’s eyes stinging even more.

“You don’t like it,” Magnus states, face blank and tone flat for several seconds that stretch out into an infinite agony. And then he’s smiling, tight and pinched and so obviously not as blasé as he had hoped it would be.

Alec can’t be there anymore, can’t watch as Magnus tries to hold onto his own composure by a single thread, can’t tolerate the dark shimmer in the warlock’s eyes that he fears may be _tears_ , can’t stand the thought that he’s messed up and broken some unspoken rule between them by panicking over all of this.

So he forces out what he can only hope is some garbled version of _‘I need some air’_ before he’s all but dashing out of the room, stopping only just barely long enough to haphazardly set his drink on some nearby side table without spilling it everywhere. And then he’s ducking through the threshold and hurrying down the hall, stumbling on shaky legs like he’s never walked before. He feels incredibly foolish – immature and ridiculous – running as if he has _ravener_ demons chasing him (running, perhaps, even _faster_ than if actual demons had been chasing him), but he can’t stop the tremor that laces up his legs or the need to _get away_ that burrows deep into his spine.

He makes it past the extravagant rooms, past the tennis courts, past the swimming pool, until he finds himself dropping on the edge of some ornate fountain in a garden that is entirely too manicured to be authentic. His legs give out from under him and he curls up as tightly as he possibly can, knees jammed against his chest and face buried in the hollow between his elbows. It doesn’t matter how much air he attempts to gasp in; the humidity makes it feel as if he’s choking on water and his lungs spasm in his chest. A sharp yank of his own hair has tears welling in his eyes, but the slight pain is just enough to drag him out of his own head and help him find his center of gravity again.

It takes a mortifying few minutes before his breathing evens out and he can relax enough to loosen the white-knuckled grip he has buried in his own hair. He sucks in a breath past his teeth and lets it stutter back out in a gust. Just when he thinks he finally has his heart rate under control, his gaze catches on a brilliant orange flower. _Pomegranate_ , his mind belatedly supplies him with, whispering delicately in the achingly familiar tone his mother used to adopt when they would wander through the botanical garden at the Institute.

He remembers how, way back when Alec was still young enough, his mother would prop him on her hip and tend to the flowers and trees of the garden. The pomegranates had always been her favorite. Maryse’s own parents had been born and raised in Granada, Spain, an old province known for its connection with the pomegranate. She used to sit under the pomegranate trees, Alec nestled in her lap, while she regaled him with stories of his grandparents and great-grandparents, of the uncle he never got to know, of a young Maryse Trueblood who used to run through the orchards outside the Granada Institute. She used to let him perch on her shoulders and pluck a few of the pomegranates from the trees once they were ripe, and they would cut into them and eat them right there, hands and faces sticky from the juice.

Alec remembers how one night he and Magnus had stayed up until the early hours of the morning, sharing insignificant but nevertheless memorable moments from their respective childhoods. He remembers sharing with Magnus the memories he held of his mother, those precious and quiet occasions where her kindness would shine through; he remembers the half-disbelieving, half-humbled look in Magnus’ eyes when Alec offered him such an insight to his mother.

And now Magnus has bought a castle and curated a garden and filled it with _Maryse Lightwood’s_ favorite tree all because Alec has a few fond memories. The attention to detail is like a physical weight on Alec’s shoulders, a heavy intimacy that _should_ feel like an invasion of privacy but instead makes Alec want to sink further into its depths. It makes him want to share every foolish little memory he can scrounge up of his childhood: the time the ducks at the pond chased Jace, or his mother taking him and Izzy to a carnival, or when Alec and Jace and Izzy snuck a young Max out of the Institute to teach him how to ice skate. It makes him want to learn all of those little things about Magnus: the songs his birth mother once sang to him, the random people he’s passed on the streets that have somehow stood out in his mind, the taste of his favorite foods of each decade and each country.

Alec _wants_ like he’s never wanted before. But it’s something ephemeral, something abstract, something intangible. Not expensive watches or overpriced leather jackets, not beach resorts or privately owned castles. Alec wants _Magnus_ , beyond the wealth and the fortune, beyond the untold power, beyond the prestige and reputation. He doesn’t know how to ask for that without sounding demanding, without inadvertently insulting, without overstepping some boundary; he doesn’t know how to ask for anything that he truly wants because there isn’t anything he can offer in return.

He thinks of his pathetic internet search and all of the taboo little things he learned about _sugar daddies_ and he thinks about how he’s not really willing to do any of the things that _sugar babies_ are supposed to do. He thinks of how he and Magnus still haven’t progressed past making out and cuddling in a shared bed. He thinks of the woeful dates that he’s organized for them: cheap tickets to dumb mundane movie theaters, dinners at some greasy burger joint in the East Village, meaningless little souvenirs that hardly make a dent in either of their lives.

But. Then Alec thinks of that _omamori_ charm and how he’s caught Magnus pulling it out of his pocket and running his fingers over it when he thought no one was looking. Or the downright _goofy_ laugh that had slipped unchecked past Magnus’ lips when they had argued over who had the best chili cheese fries in New York. Or the infinitely awed look that Magnus gets whenever Alec picks up enough courage to read love poems aloud.

It’s an easy truth that Alec has always been able to accept about himself, that he doesn’t need – nor even want – extravagant things in life; a warrior’s and a pragmatist’s lifestyle had hardly ever afforded for luxuries, anyway. And when he has foolishly tried to compare the multitude of differences between his and Magnus’ lives, he has always just simply assumed that the expensive items that the warlock surrounds himself in take some sort of precedence in his life.

And yet, Alec has seen Magnus toss countless jewels and gems and treasures around as if they were nothing, has seen the warlock cradle silly photobooth picture strips of them as if they were everything. And – abruptly – Alec _realizes_. For all that Magnus surrounds himself in his wealth, for all that he doesn’t shy away from indulging in it, none of it holds any true meaning for him. Magnus has priorities, and for all that he likes to try and hide behind some allusive and mysterious mask, Alec knows exactly what Magnus holds most dear.

Deep, expansive, half-whispered conversations at three in the morning. Sleepy and exhausted cuddles on the couch after a particularly tiresome day. Gentle little forehead kisses and sappy rom-com movies and truly _terrible_ puns. Taking time to try – and fail – to cook a meal together, dancing to jazz music out on the balcony, traveling halfway around the world just to look at the stars.

Alec can’t give Magnus private castles or beach resorts, no diamonds or pearls, no designer clothes or five-star restaurants. But Alec thinks he understands now, thinks that he finally _gets_ it. Magnus doesn’t _want_ any of that, doesn’t yearn for it with the visceral desperation of a starving man. He wants someone to hold his hand as they walk down the street, someone to whisper sweet nothings in his ear when the nightmares keep him up at night, someone to lean on if the world gets too much.

And _those_ things? Alec can give them. Alec _wants_ to give them, freely and openly and boundlessly. He wants to give them to Magnus every day for the rest of his life, if only he could be allowed. He doesn’t want to offer them as an expected payment, as some form of transaction for everything Magnus gives him. Alec gives such things because they make Magnus happy, because making Magnus happy makes _Alec_ happy.

He’s up and running before he even realizes it, sprinting through the garden with a sudden, frantic need. Except the castle has countless rooms and the grounds are impossibly large and Alec doesn’t know where Magnus could have gone during the brief span of his meltdown. The watch on his wrist was a gift from Magnus and, while it is _technically_ Alec’s, there’s just enough residual connection to _Magnus_ that he can hold it between his palms and feel the _tug_ of his tracking.

It leads him around the castle, to the opposite side of the grounds that overlook the Mediterranean Sea. There’s – _yet another_ – garden immaculately tended to there, and Alec lets the draw of Magnus’ presence pull him down the flower-filled aisles. He lets out a gusty breath when he finally spots the warlock, a beautiful figure swathed in his dark purple coat, standing out even among the multitude of flowers surrounding him.

He’s seated on a simple wrought-iron bench, back curved and elbows resting on his knees, head tilted down and focused on the single pomegranate flower he’s playing with in his hands. He’s _beautiful_ and Alec is suddenly hit with a soul-deep longing. Alec doesn’t often entertain thoughts of _what-ifs_ , but in that moment he desperately wishes that he hadn’t dedicated his entire life to learning the arts of war, that instead he had taken the time to learn how to paint or write or sing or _anything_ that could help him express the raw, visceral emotion that floods through him.

But then Alec remembers the revelations he’s only just made. It isn’t about what he _can’t_ offer; it’s about what he _can_. Alec isn’t good with words, not in any sort of way that makes them comprehensible or eloquent. But he can open up, he can tell Magnus how he really feels, he can at least _try_ to explain.

Walking closer to Magnus is simultaneously one of the easiest and most difficult things in Alec’s life. When he finally comes to stand beside the warlock, the older man still doesn’t move, still doesn’t look up at him. A part of Alec is terrified that it means there’s no fixing this, that he’s broken the relationship between them to the point of no return. He ruthlessly shoves that fear down. Magnus deserves better, and Alec can do better.

“Is, uh, is this seat taken?” stumbles out of his mouth. It’s perhaps the most inane question Alec could possibly ask. Of course the seat isn’t taken. They’re the _only two people_ there. But he doesn’t want to crowd Magnus, doesn’t want to force a conversation if Magnus isn’t completely willing to have it.

He expects some witty or even snippy comment. Instead, Magnus just shakes his head no and gestures for Alec to join him. Even as the younger man sits beside them, they very consciously don’t touch or make eye contact.

Alec feels disconnected from his own body. He swipes sweaty hands down his jeans and swallows back his saliva. He understands better how he feels, he knows some of the words he needs to say, but he doesn’t have a single plan for any of it.

So he does what he does best, and dives right in.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

It finally garners a reaction from the warlock. “You have nothing to apologize for,” Magnus insists immediately. “I should have noticed that you were uncomfort-”

“No, stop that,” Alec interrupts, snapping more harshly than Magnus rightfully deserves. “ _I_ should have said something, should have tried to explain how I felt instead of just- I shouldn’t have tried to bottle it up. And I don’t – I don’t really know how to explain it, but I’m going to- you deserve for me to at least try. So just- let me get it all out, okay?”

He risks glancing up, only to find Magnus already watching him. The makeup around his eyes still looks pristine and untouched, but Alec notices the suspicious shimmer in the warlocks’ eyes, and he wonders how much of Magnus’ composure is simply his magic holding him together. But the older man nods and pointedly doesn’t say anything to interrupt Alec.

All words completely flee his head. There’s nothing there, just a hollow cavern where all his previously accumulated thoughts were supposed to be. He looks away from Magnus and focuses on some obnoxiously bright pink flower a few feet away from him. He swipes his hands over his jeans again, and when that doesn’t help he ends up digging a thumbnail into the soft flesh of his palm.

Before he can break the skin and draw blood, Magnus’ hand reaches over to rest on top of Alec’s, stilling the motion with a simple caress. Alec releases a heavy breath that he doesn’t remember holding. He flips his hand over so that he can thread his fingers with Magnus’ and then he tightens his hold to what he’s certain must be a painful extent. But Magnus doesn’t wince or try to pull back; instead, he simply returns the gesture, sweeping his thumb idly over the back of Alec’s hand.

It’s grounding, and Alec finds the words spilling out of his mouth before he even knows that they’re there. “I’m not- I’m not good at accepting gifts,” he admits, only to earn himself a quiet snort that clearly says _‘really, Alexander, I couldn’t tell’_. “And it’s not- it’s not that I don’t like them. I _do_. It’s just- Magnus, you bought a _castle_! And that’s- that has to be a lot of money.”

At this, he sees Magnus raising his free hand to fiddle with his ear cuff. “Well, darling, if it’s any consolation, the castle cost less than my apartment in Brooklyn.”

_“How?”_

“Real estate in major cities is an absolute nightmare.”

Alec huffs and runs a hand through his hair. “Even then,” he continues, “I just- I can’t give you those sorts of things and I know- I _know_ that you don’t care about that but it makes me- Magnus, it makes me feel like there’s this… _imbalance_ in our relationship and I’m uncomfortable with that.” Everything comes out in a gigantic rush, a single run-on sentence that blurs together to a point that even Alec doesn’t quite catch it all.

Magnus is quiet, even after Alec is done talking. The silence stretches between them, interspersed with the crashing of the ocean waves and the rustling of the leaves. But it isn’t heavy or oppressive; it’s contemplative and gentle and soothing in all the ways that Alec has come to associate with Magnus.

“That’s, um, that’s all I’ve got,” Alec mentions, as if that’s the cue Magnus has been waiting for.

It spurs the warlock into action, and he finally half-turns in his spot to rest the entire weight of his gaze on Alec. His free hand comes to join their linked hands so that Alec’s are sandwiched between Magnus’ and it has the last of his tension bleeding out.

“Thank you for telling me, Alexander,” the older man starts gently, voice soft and intimate between them. “I wish you had mentioned this earlier, but I understand why you didn’t. And you were right in that I don’t care whether or not you can afford frivolous things. But, _angel_ -” here Magnus’ voice cracks and he has to pause long enough to take a breath, “I don’t think you understand just how much you _do_ give me, how rare and precious it is to me.”

A ring-clad hand comes to rest on Alec’s cheek and he finds himself leaning into with a quiet sigh. He inches closer into Magnus’ personal space, their knees lightly knocking against each other, and lets himself give in to the impulse to kiss Magnus. Their lips touch in a chaste little peck that nevertheless thrills Alec all the way down to his toes. He never wants to stop kissing Magnus, never wants to lose this electrifying and warming feeling that it inspires each time.

Even when the kiss ends, neither of them pull away. They lean their foreheads together, Magnus’ hands cradling the slope of Alec’s jaw, the shadowhunter’s fingers idly skimming over the jacket material covering the warlock’s elbows.

“When I was a boy,” Magnus starts haltingly, a half-whispered phrase that Alec has only sparingly heard in the dark hours of the morning, “the people that raised me were…not exactly kind, but they were quite wealthy. For much of my life, I learned to equate wealth and riches with affection and prestige and even love. I never once intended to make you uncomfortable, Alexander, and I’m sorry that it made you feel as such. I simply thought- I wanted to show my affection and consideration for you; and, perhaps, a part of me also wanted to _show off_ our relationship, for lack of a better phrase.”

“You don’t have to buy me fancy stuff for me to know that you care,” Alec assures, brushing an achingly sweet kiss against his boyfriend’s cheek. “I already know, Magnus. We could get greasy diner food and watch shitty daytime TV and I would still know.”

That draws a beautiful smile to Magnus’ face. “And you know that I feel the same way. But, my darling Alexander, you are someone who deserves to be utterly pampered. I adore that delectable little blush and grin you get whenever you secretly love something and I quite particularly enjoy being the one privileged enough to bring out such a side of you.”

It’s a sweet (and embarrassing) sentiment and Alec can already feel the aforementioned blush heating his cheeks and the grin tugging at his lips. But something about the words makes Alec think back to earlier that very day, when he had been mortified and huddled behind his own laptop in his office, surreptitiously scrolling through _Urban Dictionary_ to try and understand popular culture.

A flustered and aggrieved groan is slipping past his lips even as he unceremoniously drops his forehead to land onto Magnus’ shoulder. The warlock seems taken aback by the sudden movement, but his arms nevertheless wrap around his boyfriend as if it’s an ingrained action.

“Jace and Izzy are never going to let me live this down,” Alec mutters, voice half-muffled by the fabric of Magnus’ jacket. Alec _knows_ that he’s being melodramatic, but if there’s anyone in his life that he’s allowed to be a little dramatic and whiny around, it’s Magnus.

“Darling?”

“By the Angel, Magnus, you _are_ a sugar daddy.”

Magnus tenses and then pulls away just enough that it dislodges Alec from his shoulder. He’s fiddling with his ear cuff again, and looking anywhere but at Alec, and there is a very distinctive dark blush staining his cheeks. The warlock draws himself up, folding his arms over his chest and crossing one leg over the other. It makes him look powerful and regal, and also a good deal flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alexander,” the older man sniffs haughtily.

For all that Alec is impossibly mortified by the whole affair, he certainly doesn’t mind seeing Magnus like this. In fact, Alec begins wondering what else he could do to get Magnus all ruffled like this more often. “Uh huh,” he remarks, tone clearly belying how much he believes the statement.

His boyfriend scoffs, but peeks out at Alec from the corner of his eye. There’s a distinctive curl to the corner of his lips that the shadowhunter wants to kiss. Before he can, Magnus reaches for him and _pinches his cheek_.

“Now, now, Alexander. You’re not being a very gracious _sugar baby_.”

Alec doesn’t even try to stop the startled laugh it draws from him. Magnus snorts and then tries to hide it by pressing his face against Alec’s shoulder. The ocean crashes against the shores nearby, and the flowers around them rustle in the light breeze, and he sees the charming back façade of the castle looking out over them.

And, privately, Alec thinks that maybe he could get used to being a sugar baby. So long as he’s with Magnus.

**Author's Note:**

> Magnus is a sugar daddy #confirmed and Alec grows to love his role as a spoiled boyfriend (and eventual husband). They keep the castle and visit several times a year.
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious, I 100% forgot about the connection between pomegranates and the story of Persephone and Hades. Not saying that Alec is Persephone but...Alec is totally Persephone.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and putting up with my terribly slow updates! Please leave me some kudos and some comments!
> 
> ~PNGuin


End file.
